The Theatre of Life

BY ARON EPSTEIN, TUFTS STUDENT, 1998-2002, ACTOR / WRITER, NEW YORK CITY, NY
Like many of the folks who have testified to our dear Tony on this site, my first experience with him was both surprising and humbling. It was the April before my freshman year and I was still on the fence between Tufts and some nameless school, so I figured it would be a good idea to drop by the theater on my own. I ended up hovering right outside the Arena Theater entrance terrified that I would open the door on some class or rehearsal or who knows what. Just when I had my ear craned up right next to the door it shot open and Tony was standing directly in front of me howling with fright. I sort of stumbled into the theater, nearly knocking Tony over, and noticed there was a whole slew of intimidating college students staring at me from the stage. Tony straightened himself out and said, "oh my." He was the absolute embodiment of the British Man of the Theater, incredibly dapper, dignified, and dandy when he extended his hand and addressed the class behind him: "I think we have a prospective student here. Welcome!" Right off the bat, Tony gave me a theatrical moment, my first at Tufts. Very impressive and scary.

Anyway, over the next four years I found out that it gets a whole lot more exciting than that with Tony. He was insightful, grand, thorny, eccentric, biting, compassionate, always honest, and (something that I think is too often overlooked by students and faculty alike)incredibly generous. What other faculty member attended every single show we performed in -- majors, minors, whatever? Sure, he took us down a notch or two after some of them, but it was always in the interest of improving us -- or maybe he was just in a mood, who knows. Does it matter? He was honest -- and he was there -- because he cared. Being taken down a notch or two every now and then is good for the soul, especially in our hyper-polite world, and when Tony was pleased with you he would deliver his blessing like a swank crown. And that's what it felt like when you walked around with it. Always unpredictable (and always approachable if you were willing to take the chance), he elevated our experience by reminding us with his very presence that theater is nothing if we don't make it a scraggly extension of our lives.

A few little memories from Love For Love rehearsals (because it's the
little moments that I remember most vividly):

A couple weeks before opening night we started rehearsing in these big, ridiculous, knotty wigs, to get used to them I guess (Love For Love is a Restoration comedy). One night when Tony was a little under the weather, probably because we were performing badly, a bunch of performers from Traveling Treasure Trunk (the Tufts Children's Theater troupe) busted into the theater with all of the their costumes and props (and an actual trunk) halfway through a scene. Tony flipped out(or, more likely, saw his opportunity). He literally turned and screamed at the Trunkers at the top of his lungs. "We are trying to rehearse! Get! Out! Now!" And all of these kids dressed like muppets just froze in their tracks, staring at Tony (and us behind him in our massive wigs -- kind of a muppet standoff). "Don't just stand there. Leave!" So they slowly shuffled out. When the door closed, Tony smirked and said very quietly, "well, I suppose they'll be
traveling their trunk someplace else from now on." For Tony, a rehearsal was just as much of a theatrical experience as a performance was. If you interrupted, there was hell to pay, and that hell became a performance. He was in a good mood for the rest of that rehearsal (and our performances improved considerably).

A few weeks later Tony called me late in the night, after rehearsal, and told me incredibly lucidly and simply that I had veered recently and lost something in the character. The next day at rehearsal he took me aside and elaborated: "Aron, I'm not trying to nitpick, but I feel very close to this character, more so than to any other in the show. I have an affinity with him, you see." The character was kind
of grand and, well, clownish -- and very sensitive to both of those facts -- and as is often the case with such characters, he was lightly mocked by his friends in the play but loved and understood by the audience. When Tony told me that I had found the character again a few nights later he seemed relieved, and I sensed why he cared so deeply for the theater -- when done right (and hopefully to his pecifications) it legitimizes life, any life. That's comforting for all of us clowns out there.

Just one more Love for Love memory. One night Josh Gates and I went to a black tie opening for an Omni show (seriously -- The Mysteries of Egypt -- Josh got us in). We had to rush out when the movie was over because I had rehearsal. Josh raced me back but I still stumbled in about 20 minutes late (and in my suit). They were rehearsing my scene already and I sort of ran in right on cue. Tony let me get through a few lines before halting the scene. "Hold!" There was a short silence and then I tried to apologize. "Sorry Tony, I rushed back as fast as I could, I was at this..." Then I trailed off. "It''s quite all right, Aron, lateness is one of your eccentricities. And you look very sharp tonight. It elevates your acting -- you'd been a little sodden of late." See, he made me feel welcome and gave me a little bite to get me going at the same time. It was the suit that saved me -- Tony always appreciated it when someone found a way to make a moment special, even accidentally. Because (and I know I said this before) that was/is theater, just as much as opening night, and I'll carry it with me for the rest of my life.